Текст книги "Sandstorm"

Автор книги: James Rollins

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 31 страниц)

Coral spoke at his side, matter-of-fact, professional. “Dr. Dunn, he is telling you the truth. We tested the blast zone ourselves, detecting Z-bozons and gluons, decay particles from an antimatter/matter interaction.”

Omaha frowned, less sure.

“I know it sounds preposterous,” Painter said. “But if you’ll lower your gun, I’ll explain.”

Omaha steadied the pistol instead. “So far this is all that’s kept you talking.”

Painter sighed. It was worth the try.“Have it your way, then.”

With the gun pointed at his face, he gave a brief overview: of the Tunguska explosion in Russia in 1908, of the unique gamma radiation found both there and at the British Museum, of the plasma characteristics of the explosion, and how evidence hinted that somewhere out in the deserts of Oman lay a possible source of antimatter, preserved in some unknown fashion to make it stable and unreactive while in the presence of matter.

“Though now it may be destabilizing,” Painter finished. “That may be why the meteor exploded at the museum. And it may happen here, too. Time is critical. Now may be the only time we can discover and preserve this source of unlimited power.”

Kara frowned. “And what does the United States government plan on doing with such a limitless source of power?”

Painter read the suspicion in her eyes. “Safeguard it for now. That’s the immediate and primary goal. To protect it from those who would abuse it. If this power should fall into the wrong hands…”

Silence lingered as his words died away. They all knew borders no longer divided the world so much as ideologies. Though it was undeclared, there was a new world war being waged, where fundamental decency and respect for human rights were under assault by forces of intolerance, despotism, and blind fervor. And while its battles were sometimes waged in plain sight-in New York City, in Iraq-its greater struggle was carried on invisibly, fought in secret, its heroes unknown, its villains hidden.

Willing or not, the group assembled here on the beach had been drafted into this war.

Kara finally spoke. “And this other group. Safia’s kidnappers. They’re the same ones who broke into the British Museum.”

Painter nodded. “I believe so.”

“Who are they?” Omaha still held the pistol at him.

“I don’t know…not for sure.”

“Bullshit!”

Painter held up a hand. “All I know for certain is who leads the team. A partner I once worked with, a mole planted in DARPA.” He was too exhausted to hide his anger. “Her name is Cassandra Sanchez. I never discovered who she worked for. A foreign power. Terrorists. A black-market group. All I know is that they are well funded, organized, and cold-blooded in their methods.”

Omaha scoffed, “And you and your partner are the warm, fuzzy types.”

“We don’t kill innocent people.”

“No, you’re fucking worse!” he spat. “You let others do your dirty work. You knew we were walking into a possible shitstorm but kept your mouths closed. If we had known before now, we might’ve been better prepared. We might have stopped Safia’s abduction.”

Painter had no comeback. The man was right. He’d been caught off guard, jeopardizing the mission and their lives.

Distracted by his own guilt, he failed to respond in time. Omaha lunged and pressed the pistol’s barrel against his forehead, knocking him back a step. “You bastard…this is all your fault!”

He heard the pain and anguish in Omaha’s voice. The man was beyond reason. Anger built in Painter’s chest. He was cold, sore, and tired of having a gun waved in his face. He didn’t know if he’d have to take Omaha out.

Coral waited, tense.

Support came from an unlikely source.

A thunder of hooves suddenly broke across the beach. All eyes turned, even Omaha. He stepped back and finally lowered the gun.

“Goddamn…” he muttered.

Across the sand, an amazing sight galloped. A white stallion, mane flying, hooves casting up gouts of sand. It was the horse from the Shabab Oman.

The stallion raced toward them, perhaps drawn by their raised voices. It must have swum to shore after the explosion. It slammed to a stop a few yards from them, huffing white into the cool night air, heated. It tossed its head.

“I can’t believe it got away,” Omaha said.

“Horses are excellent swimmers,” Kara scolded, but she couldn’t keep the awe from her voice.

One of the Desert Phantoms slowly approached the horse, palm out, whispering in Arabic. It shivered but allowed the approach. Exhausted, frightened, needing reassurance.

The sudden arrival of the horse cut the tension. Omaha stared down at his gun as if unsure how it had gotten into his fist.

Kara stepped forward and faced Painter. “I think it’s time we stopped arguing. Casting blame. We all had our reasons for coming out here. Hidden agendas.” She glanced back to Omaha, who would not meet her eye. Painter could guess the man’s agenda. It was plain from the way he’d been looking at Safia, his furious anger a moment ago. He was still in love.

“From here,” Kara continued, “we must figure out what we’re going to do to save Safia. That’s the priority.” She turned to Painter. “What do we do?”

Painter nodded. His left eye ached with the motion. “The others think we’re dead. That gives us an advantage we’d best keep. We also know where they’re heading. We have to reach Salalah as quickly as possible. That means crossing almost three hundred miles.”

Kara stared toward the lights of the distant village. “If I could reach a phone, I’m sure I could get the sultan to-”

“No,” he cut her off. “No one must know we’re alive. Not even the Omani government. Any word, anywhere, that we’re still alive jeopardizes our thin advantage. Cassandra’s group managed to abduct Safia through their advantage of surprise. We can win her back the same way.”

“But with the sultan’s help, Salalah could be locked down and searched.”

“Cassandra’s group has already proven too damn resourceful. They’ve brought in significant manpower and weapons. That couldn’t have happened without resources in the government.”

“And if we come out of hiding, word would reach the kidnappers,” Omaha mumbled. He had holstered the pistol in his waistband and rubbed his knuckles. His angry outburst seemed to have steadied the man. “The kidnappers would be gone before any action could be taken. We’d lose Safia.”

“Exactly.”

“Then what do we do?” Kara asked.

“We find transportation.”

Captain al-Haffi stepped forward. Painter was unsure how the man would feel about deceiving his own government, keeping them in the dark, but then again, when out in the field, the Desert Phantoms acted with full independence. He nodded to Painter. “I’ll send one of my men over to the village. They won’t arouse suspicion.”

The captain must have read something in Painter’s face, some question about why he was so readily helping the team. “They killed one of my men. Kalil. He was my wife’s cousin.”

Painter nodded with sympathy. “May Allah carry him home.” He knew there was no stronger loyalty than that to the members of one’s own tribe and family.

With a half bow of thanks, Captain al-Haffi waved to the taller of his two men, a true giant of a man, named Barak. They spoke rapidly in Arabic. Barak nodded and began to step away.

Kara stopped him. “How are you going to get a truck with no money?”

Barak answered her in English, “Allah helps those who help themselves.”

“You’re going to steal one?”

“Borrow. It is tradition among our desert tribes. A man may borrow what he needs. Stealing is a crime.”

With this little bit of wisdom, the man headed out toward the distant lights at a steady jog, disappearing into the night like a true phantom.

“Barak will not fail us,” Captain al-Haffi assured them. “He will find a vehicle large enough to carry all of us…and the horse.”

Painter glanced back along the rocky shore. The remaining Phantom, a taciturn young man named Sharif, led the stallion with a length of towline.

“Why bring the horse?” Painter asked, concerned about the exposure of a large vehicle. “There’s good grazing here, and someone would find it.”

Captain al-Haffi answered, “We have little money. And the horse may be bartered, sold. Used as transportation if needed. It is also a cover for us to be traveling to Salalah. The horse farms there are well known. It will lessen suspicion if we bring the stallion along on our journey. And besides, white is good luck.” This last was said with deadly seriousness. Luck among the folks of Arabia was as important as a roof over one’s head.

They made a brief camp. While Omaha and Painter beached the launch behind some rocks to hide it, the others built a fire out of drift-wood, sheltering it within the lee of a tumbled section of cliff. Hidden, the tiny pyre would be hard to spot, and they all needed its warmth and light.

Forty minutes later, the grinding of gears announced the arrival of their transportation. Headlights rounded a bend in the coastal road. A flatbed truck rolled up. It was an old International 4900, painted yellow, scarred with rust. Its bed was framed in wooden fencing with a drop gate behind.

Barak hopped out.

“I see you found something to borrow,” Kara said.

He shrugged.

They put out the fire. Barak had also managed to borrowsome clothes: robes and cloaks. They quickly dressed, concealing their Western wear.

Once ready, Captain al-Haffi and his men took the truck’s cab, in case they were stopped. The others clambered into the back. It took blind-folding the horse to get it to walk up the drop gate into the flatbed. They tied the Arabian near the front cab. Then Painter and the others huddled near the back.

As the truck bounced onto the coastal road, Painter studied the stallion. White is good luck.Painter hoped so…they would need every bit of it.

Part Three

Tombs

11

Marooned

DECEMBER 3, 12:22 P.M.

SALALAH

SAFIA WOKEin a cell, disoriented and nauseated. The dark room spun and jittered as she moved her head. A groan bubbled up from her core. A high barred window let in stabbing shafts of light. Too bright, searing.

A wave of queasiness rolled over her.

She turned on her side and dragged her head, too heavy for her shoulders, over the edge of the cot. Her stomach clenched, then clenched again. Nothing. Still, she tasted bile as she collapsed back down.

She took deep breaths, and slowly the walls stopped their spin.

She became aware of the sweat covering her body, pasting the thin cotton shift to her legs and chest. The heat stifled. Her lips felt cracked, parched. How long had she been drugged? She remembered the man with the needle. Cold, tall, dressed in black. He had forced her to change out of her wet clothes aboard the boat and into the khaki shift.

Carefully, Safia stared around her. The room was stone walls, plank flooring. It stank of fried onions and dirty feet. The cot was the only furnishing. A single door of stout oak stood closed. No doubt locked.

She lay unmoving for several more minutes. Her mind floated, half deadened by the aftereffects of the drug they had given her. Still, deep inside her, panic coiled around her heart. She was alone, captured. The others dead. She pictured flames in the night, reflecting off storm-swept water. The memory had burned into her like a camera flash in the dark. All red, painful, too bright to blink away. Her breathing tightened, throat closed down. She wanted to cry but couldn’t. If she started, she would never stop.

Finally, she pushed up and rolled her feet to the floor. It was not with any determination beyond the heavy pressure in her bladder. Biological need, a reminder that she lived. She stood, unsteady, a hand against the wall. The stones were welcoming cool.

She stared up at the barred window. From the heat, the angle of the sun, it had to be close to midday. But which day? Where was she? She smelled the sea and the sand. Still in Arabia, she was sure. She crossed the room. The burning in her bladder sharpened.

She hobbled to the door, lifted an arm. Would they merely drug her again? She fingered the purple bruise at the angle of her left arm, where the needle had dug in. She had no choice. Need outweighed caution. She pounded on the door and called out hoarsely, “Hello! Can anyone hear me?” She repeated her words in Arabic.

No one answered.

She knocked harder, stinging her knuckles, an ache flaring between her shoulder blades. She was weak, dehydrated. Had they left her here to die?

Finally, footsteps responded. A heavy bar scraped against wood. The door swung open. She found herself facing the same man as before. He stood a half a foot taller than she, looming in a black shirt and scuffed, faded jeans. She was surprised to find his head shaved. She didn’t remember that. No, he had been wearing a black cap then. The only hair on his head were his dark eyebrows and a small tuft at his chin. But she did not forget those eyes, blue and cold, unreadable, passionless. A shark’s eyes.

She shivered as he stared at her, the heat suddenly gone from the room.

“You’re up,” he said. “Come with me.”

She heard a trace of an Aussie accent, but one blunted by years away from home. “Where…I have to use the lavatory.”

He frowned at her and strode away. “Follow me.”

He led her to a small hall bath. It had a squat toilet, curtainless shower, and a small stained washbasin with a leaking tap. Safia ducked inside. She reached a hand to the door, unsure if she would be allowed privacy.

“Don’t be long,” he said, pulling the door the rest of the way shut.

Alone, she searched the room for some weapon, some means of escape. Again the lone window was barred. But she could at least see out of this one. She hurried forward and stared out at the small township below, nestled against the sea. Palm trees and white buildings spread between her and the water. Off to the left, a flutter of rainbow-colored tarps and awnings marked off a market souk. And in the distance, green patches beyond the city defined banana, coconut, sugarcane, and papaya plantations.

She knew this place.

The Garden City of Oman.

Salalah.

It was the capital city of the Dhofar Province, the original destination of the Shabab Oman.It was a lush region, green, with waterfalls and rivers feeding the pastures. Only in this section of Oman did the monsoon winds bless the land with sweeps of rain, a regular light drizzle, and an almost continual mist over the nearby coastal mountains. It was a weather system like no other in the Gulf, one that allowed for the growth of the rare frankincense tree, a source of great wealth in ancient times. The riches here had led to the founding of the legendary cities of Sumharam, Al-Balid, and lastly, the lost city of Ubar.

Why had her kidnappers taken her here?

She crossed to the toilet and quickly relieved herself. Afterward she washed her hands and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She appeared a shadow of herself, gaunt, tense, hollow-eyed.

But she was alive.

A knock on the door. “ ’Bout done in there?”

With no other recourse, Safia stepped back to the door and opened it.

The man nodded. “This way.”

He strode off, not even glancing back, so sure of his control of the situation. Safia followed. She had no other choice, but her legs dragged, leaden with despair. She was marched down a short flight of stairs, along another hall. Other men, hard-eyed, rifles over shoulders, lounged behind doorways or stood guard. They finally reached a tall door.

The man knocked and pushed open the door.

Safia found a room furnished spartanly: a threadbare rug with the color long bleached out of it by the sun, a single sofa, two stiff wooden chairs. A pair of fans buzzed, stirring the air. A table to the side was weighted down by an array of weapons, electronic equipment, and a laptop computer. A cable trailed out the neighboring window to a palm-size satellite dish pointed at the sky.

“That’ll be all, Kane,” the woman said, stepping away from the computer.

“Captain.” The man nodded and left, closing the door.

Safia considered lunging for one of the guns on the table, but knew she would not get within a step of them. She was too weak, still wobbly.

The woman turned to her. She wore black slacks, a gray T-shirt, and over that, a loose long-sleeved shirt, unbuttoned, cuffs rolled to elbows. Safia noted the black butt of a holstered pistol at her side.

“Please sit,” she instructed, and pointed to one of the wooden chairs.

Safia moved slowly, but obeyed.

The woman remained standing, pacing behind the sofa. “Dr. al-Maaz, it seems your reputation as an expert in the antiquities of the region has come to the attention of my superiors.”

Safia barely understood her words. She found herself staring at the woman’s face, her black hair, her lips. This was the woman who had tried to kill her in the British Museum, orchestrated the death of Ryan Fleming, murdered all her friends last night. Faces, images shuffled through her mind, distracting her from the woman’s words.

“Are you listening, Dr. al-Maaz?”

She couldn’t answer. She searched for evil in the woman, for the capability for such cruelty and savagery. Some mark, some scar, some understanding. There was nothing. How could that be?

A heavy sigh escaped the woman. She crossed around the sofa and sat down, leaning forward, elbows on her knees. “Painter Crowe,” she said.

The unexpected name startled Safia, a flash of anger burning through her.

“Painter…he was my partner.”

Shock and disbelief rattled Safia. No…

“I see I have your attention.” The smallest smile of satisfaction shadowed her lips. “You should know the truth. Painter Crowe was using you. All of you. Needlessly putting you in harm’s way. Keeping secrets.”

“You’re lying,” she finally croaked out past her parched lips.

The woman lounged back into the sofa. “I have no need to lie. Unlike Painter, I’ll tell you the truth. What you stumbled into, discovered by misfortune and chance, holds the possible key to untold power.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about antimatter.”

Safia frowned at the impossibility of what she was hearing. The woman continued explaining about the explosion at the museum, radiation signatures, the search for the primary source of some stable form of antimatter. Despite her wish to deny it all, much of it began to make sense. Certain statements by Painter, some of his gear, the pressure by the U.S. government.

“The meteor fragment that exploded at the museum,” the woman continued. “It was said to guard the true gates of the lost city of Ubar. It is there that you will lead us.”

She shook her head, more in denial. “This is all preposterous.”

The woman stared a moment longer, stood, and walked across the room. She dragged something from under the table and grabbed a device from among the stacked equipment. As she returned, Safia recognized her own suitcase.

The woman flipped the trunk’s clasps and swung open the lid. The iron heart lay nestled within molded black Styrofoam. It glowed ruddy in the bright sunlight. “This is the artifact you discovered. Inside a statue dating back to 200B.C With the name of Ubar written on its surface.”

Safia slowly nodded, surprised at the woman’s intimate knowledge. She seemed to know everything about her.

The woman leaned down and passed the handheld device over the artifact. The device crackled and popped, sounding not unlike a Geiger counter. “It gives off an extremely low-level radiation signature. Barely detectable. But it’s the same as the exploded meteor. Did Painter ever tell you that?”

Safia remembered Painter testing the artifact with a similar device. Could it be true? Again despair settled to the pit of her stomach, a cold stone.

“We need you to continue your work for us,” the woman said, resealing the trunk. “To guide us to the lost gates of Ubar.”

Safia stared at the closed trunk. All the bloodshed, all the deaths…all tied to her discovery. Again. “I won’t,” she mumbled.

“You will, or you will die.”

Safia shook her head and shrugged. She didn’t care. All that she loved had been taken from her. By this woman. She would never help.

“We will proceed with or without you. There are other experts in your field. And I can make your last hours veryunpleasant if you refuse.”

This actually drew a weak laugh from her. Unpleasant?After all she had been through…Safia lifted her head and fully met the woman’s eyes for the first time, a place she had feared staring into until now. They weren’t cold like those of the man who had led her here. They sparked with a deep-seated anger…but also confusion. A frown thinned the woman’s lips.

“Do what you have to,” Safia said, realizing the power in her own despair. This woman could not touch her, harm her. They had taken too much last night. Left nothing that could threaten her. Both of them knew this truth at the same moment.

A flash of worry showed in the pinch of the other’s eyebrows.

She needs me, Safia knew with certainty. The woman had lied about having access to some other expert. She can’t get someone else. Steel flowed through Safia, firming her resolve, firing away the last of her drug-induced lassitude.

Once before, a woman had walked out of nowhere and into her life, a bomb strapped to her chest, passionate with religious fervor, ending lives without mercy. All aimed at Safia.

That woman had died in the explosion back in Tel Aviv. Afterward, Safia had never been able to confront her, to hold her responsible. Instead, she took the guilt upon herself. But it was even more than that. Safia had never been able to exact revenge for the deaths laid at her feet, to purge her guilt.

That was no longer true.

She faced her captor, never breaking eye contact.

She remembered wishing she could’ve stopped that woman in Tel Aviv, met her earlier, somehow prevented the explosion, the deaths. Could it be true about a source of antimatter? She pictured the explosion at the British Museum, the aftermath. What would someone like this woman do with such power? How many more would die?

Safia could not let that happen. “What is your name?”

The question startled her captor. The reaction caused a flash of pleasure to erupt in Safia, as bright as the sun, painful but satisfying.

“You said you’d tell me the truth.”

The woman frowned, but answered slowly. “Cassandra Sanchez.”

“What will you have me do, Cassandra?” Safia enjoyed the look of irritation in the other at the informal use of her name. “If I cooperate.”

The woman stood, anger flashing. “In an hour, we will leave for the tomb of Imran. Where the heart’s statue was found. Where you were planning to head with the others. That’s where we’ll start.”

Safia stood. “One last question.”

The woman stared at her quizzically.

“Who do you work for? Tell me that and I’ll cooperate.”

Before answering, the woman crossed to the door, opened it, and waved for her man Kane to collect the prisoner. She spoke from the doorway.

“I work for the U.S. government.”

1:01 P.M.

CASSANDRA WAITEDuntil the museum curator had left and the door had been closed. She kicked a palm-frond-woven wastepaper basket across the room, scattering its contents across the plank floor. A Pepsi can rattled and rolled to a stop by the sofa. Fucking bitch…

She had to restrain herself from further outbursts, bottling back her anger. The woman had seemed broken. Cassandra had never imagined her to be so cunning there at the end. She had seen the shift in the other’s eyes, a glacial slide of power from her over to her prisoner. She had been unable to stop it. How had that happened?

She clenched her hands into fists, then forced her fingers to relax and shook her arms. “Bitch…” she mumbled to the room. But at least the prisoner was going to cooperate. It was a victory with which she would have to be satisfied. The Minister would be pleased.

Still, bile churned in her stomach, keeping her mood sour. The curator had more strength in her than Cassandra had imagined. She began to understand Painter’s interest in the woman.

Painter…

Cassandra heaved out a perturbed sigh. His body had never been found. It left her feeling unmoored. If only-

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. John Kane pushed inside before she could even turn. Irritation flashed at his blatant invasion of her privacy, his lack of respect.

“Lunch was brought up to the prisoner,” he said. “She’ll be ready at fourteen hundred.”

Cassandra crossed to the table of electronic gear. “How did the subdermal function?”

“Registering perfectly. A good, strong tracking signal.”

Last night, after the prisoner had been drugged, they had implanted a subdermal microtransceiver between her shoulder blades. The same device Cassandra was supposed to have implanted on Zhang back in the States. Cassandra found it especially gratifying to use Painter’s own design in this matter. The microtransceiver would act as an electronic leash on the prisoner when they were on the streets. They would be able to track the curator for a ten-mile radius. Any attempt at escape would be quashed.

“Very good,” she said. “See that your men are all ready.”

“They are.” Kane bristled at her command, but his neck was also on the line if this mission failed.

“Any word from local authorities about the ship’s explosion last night?”

“CNN is blaming it on unknown terrorists.” He snorted at this last.

“What about survivors? Bodies?”

“Definitely no survivors. Salvage is just beginning to determine cause and body count.”

She nodded. “Okay, get your men ready. You’re dismissed.”

Rolling his eyes a bit, he swung away and left the room, pushing the door behind him, but he didn’t close it completely. She had to cross over and shove it the rest of the way. The latch clicked.

Just keep needling, Kane…payback’s a bitch.

Sighing her frustration, she moved back to the sofa. She sat down, on the edge. No survivors.She pictured Painter, remembering the first time he had succumbed to her subtle advances, her carefully orchestrated seduction. Their first kiss. He had tasted sweet, of the wine they’d had at dinner. His arms around her. His lips…his hands slowly sliding up the curve of her hip.

She touched herself where his palm had come to a rest and leaned back into the sofa, less resolved than a moment ago. She felt more anger than satisfaction after the night’s mission. More edgy. And she knew why. Until she saw Painter’s drowned corpse, his name on the list of the dead dragged from the sea, she would never know with certainty.

Her hand moved down along her hip, remembering. Could things have turned out differently between them? She closed her eyes, fingers clenching on her belly, hating herself for even pondering the possibility.

Damn you, Painter…

No matter what she might fantasize, it would’ve ended badly. That’s what the past had taught her. First her father…sneaking into her bed at night, starting when she was eleven, high on crack, promising, threatening. Cassandra had retreated to books, erecting a wall between her and the world. In books, she learned how potassium stops the heart. Undetectable. On her seventeenth birthday, her father was found dead in his La-Z-Boy. No one paid attention to one needle puncture among the others. Her mother suspected and feared her.

With no reason to stay at home, she joined the army at eighteen, finding pleasure in hardening herself, testing herself. Then the offer, to enter a Special Forces marksman program. It was an honor, but not everyone thought of it that way. At Fort Bragg, an enlisted man pushed her into an alley, intending to correct her. He held her down, ripped open her shirt. “Who’s your daddy now, bitch?” A mistake. Both the man’s legs were broken. They were never able to repair his genitalia. She was allowed to leave the service as long as she kept her mouth shut.

She was good at secrets.

Afterward, Sigma came calling, and the Guild. It became all about power. Another way to harden herself. She had accepted.

Then Painter…his smile, his calm…

Pain flowed into her. Dead or alive?

She had to know. While she knew better than to make any assumptions, she could make contingency arrangements. She shoved off the sofa and stalked to the equipment table. The laptop was open. She checked the feed from the microtransceiver planted on the prisoner and clicked the GPS mapping feature. A three-dimensional grid appeared. The tracking device, depicted by a rotating blue ring, showed her in her cell.

If Painter was out there, he’d come for her.

She stared at the screen. Her prisoner might think she had gained an upper hand earlier, but Cassandra took the longer view.

She had modified Painter’s subdermal transceiver, paired it with one designed by the Guild. It required amplifying the power cell, but once this was done, the modifications allowed Cassandra at any time to ignite an embedded pellet of C4, to take out the woman’s spine, killing her with a keystroke.

So if Painter was still out there, let him come.

She was ready to end all uncertainty.

1:32 P.M.

EVERYONE COLLAPSEDon the sand, bone-tired. The stolen flatbed truck steamed on the narrow coastal road behind them, its hood open. The stretch of white sand spread in an arc, bordered by rocky limestone cliffs that tumbled into the sea on either end. It was deserted, isolated from any village.

Painter stared south, trying to pierce the fifty or so miles that lay between him and Salalah. Safia had to be there.He prayed he wasn’t already too late.

Behind him, Omaha and the three Desert Phantoms argued in Arabic over the engine compartment of the truck.

The others sought the shade of the cliffs, collapsing and spent from the long night of rugged travel. The steel bed of the truck offered no cushioning against the bumps and ruts in the coastal road. Painter had caught snippets of sleep, but managed no real rest, just restless dreams.

He touched his left eye, half swollen shut now. The pain focused him on their situation. The journey, while steady, had been slow, limited by the terrain and the condition of the old road. And now a radiator hose had burst.

The delay risked all.

A crunch of sand drew his attention around to Coral. She wore a loose fitting robe, a bit too short, showing her bare ankles. Her hair and face were smudged with the oil from the bed of the truck.